I follow Poppy as we walk down the narrow grass path. The neighbors’ house is just five families down the way from my own but I’ve never been on their property. A familiar child’s face pokes out of the window, smoke escaping out the opening around him.
“uGogo ukhona?” (Is granny home?) Poppy asks him.
“Yebo. Uyafika.” (Yes. She is coming.)
Gogo comes out of the small, rectangular building and says, “Heybo!” (Oh, my!) as she sees me standing with Poppy. Poppy greets Gogo and asks to stay outside because it is cold indoors. We walk around a second building, a small rondavel. Gogo, then Poppy, then I take a seat in the short grass. Keeping our legs together at all times, as respectable women, we tuck our legs to the side. The sun is strong on us. It feels good after the cold of the morning.
“Ngisebenza neSiyanakekela. Sisebenza nobantu ukusizo abantwana esikoleni. uKhethiwe uyavakasha futhi ukukhaluma nawe,” Poppy begins. (I work with Siyanakekela. We work with people to help children at school. Khethiwe is visiting also. We want to speak with you.) She continues to explain herself. I am tagging along on my first home visit. Poppy serves as a community outreach to five schools. We are at the Mayisa home to discuss Thulani. Thulani is a boy in grade one. He does not have an adequate birth certificate and therefore no identity number, updated immunizations, or a physical check up from the clinic. The family had never reported him to the government and to fix this, when a second child was born, his name was added to her certificate.
Soon, Gogo called for Thulani. Thulani ran quickly up to us, stopped behind me, and took two small steps into our conversation, head down.
“Sawubona, Thulani,” Poppy smiled at the young boy just taller than her while she sat on the grass.
In a soft whisper he recognized her, “Ye-“
“Uyahamba eSandlwana Primary?” Poppy asks. (You go to Isandlwana Primary?) No response from Thulani. Just a smile and his tongue moved around below the roof of his mouth. “Uyafunda eGrade One?” (Do you study grade one?) His eyes stay focused on the ground in front of his toes and move from one foot to the other. His smile grows.
“Alright. Siyabonga,” Poppy excuses him. She turns back to Gogo with a small laugh, signaling that she appreciates his shyness as a sign of respect to her. The two talk for a while longer. I study Gogo’s reaction to us visitors. She appears to be establishing trust in Poppy slowly. I wonder what she is thinking about me, a strange girl from America who cannot continue most conversations past the greetings. She picks a long piece of grass to use as floss, tilts her head to the right, and squints at Poppy. Poppy confidently continues to ask questions and rests her hand on Gogo’s lap. Gogo, a typical Zulu woman, doesn’t respond to Poppy’s hand. When women interact with one another, they often touch each other, even if they have just met. I recall being very uncomfortable when a woman first put her hand on my chest as if my chest was her knee. I now understand this is a possessive way a woman can touch me, almost like a compliment to me. It is like I am her child if she touches my chest when she talks about me or to me.
Gogo responds to Poppy’s questions. Her answers get longer. Then, she shouts to another child. Gogo instructs her to fetch the birth certificate.
“Khethiwe,” Poppy looks at the ground and whispers to me, “Isibindi Park must be engaged in this issue.” Isibindi Park is a PEPFAR funded area in Isandlwana. Poppy was employed by Isibindi before she started working for Siyanakekela. There is a small playground and a few portable buildings at the park. This is to allow for children to enjoy childhood play in a safe environment. The staff of Isibindi is trained extensively in HIV/Aids, community outreach, learner support, child development, and parent support.
“Mhmm,” I approve.
“They can help get the government grant for this child.”
“Mhmm.”
“The clothing costs, the school costs, the food parcels. The family is struggling now without the government being aware of this child.” The paperwork comes and is handed to Poppy.
I look over Poppy’s shoulder and read:
Surname: Mayisa
First Names: Azuko Thulani
Sex: Female
“Yebo! Khethiwe, this is just as I suspected,” Poppy takes some time to explain what is happening. “See here? Azuko is the girl’s name. The second name here is Thulani, the boy. And the gender? It is female. Thulani is not in the system. He does not have an identification number. I have an identification number. You have an identification number. We must all have a number.”
Poppy pulls out the second piece of paper just to reveal the top portion. It appears to be a doctor’s physical. The paper reads:
First Name: Azuko
Surname: Mayisa
Place of Birth: Home
A child returns to Gogo with an infant. This baby wears an outgrown long-sleeved white shirt, a piece of yarn around the waistline, no pants, and mud on her face. The yarn is most likely from a traditional healer. Perhaps it is a form of protection for the child, from witches, bad omens, bad luck, etc. Poppy and Gogo’s conversation continues. The baby fuses a little as she adjusts to the sunlight. She snuggles low in Gogo’s lap where she finds shade.
“Khethiwe,” Poppy turns to me, “Is it possible for you to go to the Department of Home Affairs, explain that Thulani’s name must be removed from this birth certificate? Then go to the SES to explain the situation and have them issue an identification number for Thulani? Then return to the Department of Home Affairs and receive a new birth certificate for him?”
I, unaware if she is asking if one can do this or if she is actually requesting me to go and do this challenging task, reply, “Yes.” Either way, it is culturally acceptable for me to agree to her question and not to make conflict.
“Yes. It is possible,” Poppy turns back to Gogo. “This must be done.”
She explains this idea to Gogo. A bucket with hot water is brought to Gogo’s side. Gogo touches the water and instructs the child to fetch more cool water. Two cups of cool water are added to the bucket. Soap and a wash cloth are handed to Gogo. Gogo undresses the child and is doing most of the talking now. The baby starts to cry. Gogo kisses her open mouth and says, “Thula, Sisi. Thula.” (Quiet, Sister. Quiet.)
The baby girl listens to her gogo and leans across Gogo’s lap. Babies are taught at a young age to just deal. That is what all Zulus seem to do in life. There is little complaining, little fuss; consequently there is also little change, little desire of success beyond the village. She shuts her eyes as Gogo washes her hair and neck with a bar of soap. Gogo washes her face and the crying starts again. A mother however many times over, she instinctively moves this child from her lap and places her into the bucket before tears start to come. She takes the wash cloth out of the water and shows the baby how the water runs back down into the pool of water she sits in. The baby smiles and splashes her hands into the water. I watch this beautiful, baby girl smile at the interaction with water. I can’t help but think for a second, I wish I had a bucket large enough for me to sit in and play in the water. Her water was probably fetched by her older sister. Her head is nearly completely dry from the sun’s rays. I think about how she was probably birthed in the rondavel we are sitting next to. Her large brown eyes find my blue eyes. She shakily grabs the edge of the bucket and smiles. I laugh. Gogo and Poppy look at me and laugh too.
Gogo starts to talk about me. I know this by the way she is looking at me with accepting eyes. Her voice imitates my own, “Sannibonani!” She says within her description of me. She is saying that she always hears me greet her as I walk by. She continues to talk about me and I just look into her eyes. She pauses and smiles.
“She doesn’t want for you to go back to America,” Poppy says.
“Aww. Siyabonga,” I reply. (Thank you.)
Gogo talks to Poppy, occasionally looking at me. She takes her hands and moves them in the shape of a skirt around her legs, “uKhethiwe uyamuhle eduze esitoleni…” She is talking about how she saw me near the store and she thought I looked beautiful, which probably means that I looked like a Zulu. She points in the direction away from her house and my own house, then nods to me with a smile. I have a feeling Gogo is trying to fix me up.
“Khethiwe, would you get married in South Africa?” Poppy asks. Yeah, Gogo’s trying to fix me up for sure.
“Angazi. Umama wami eMelika aujabula.” (I don’t know. My mom in American would not be happy.) They laugh. The conversation turns to family. For a long while I don’t understand what is said. My mind wanders to the scene.
On this ground, I sit. To my right is knee-high grass. To my left is a mud house with three shadows. IsiZulu circles around my ears. I sit among two women who have just met. One, a community worker who is confident in who she is and what she can do to help. The other, an older grandmother who continues to care for infants. The two women, as defined by culture, are to follow a man’s lead, provide for their families until they are unable, and to protect their families from unacceptable members in the community. The two women, in reality, are fully in charge of their homes. Their knowledge of tradition, laws, religion, health, and education will determine their children’s dreams, and ultimately their children’s success. They exchange stories and find similarities. They bond and create a plan. Because of this moment, a child will be able to receive sufficient food and a potentially education past grade twelve.
We thank Gogo. She thanks us.
“uKhethiwe uyakhaluma isiZulu,” Gogo incorrectly states. (Khethiwe speaks Zulu.)
“Ngiyazama.” (I try.)
We exit down the same narrow path as before. Poppy and I are happy.
“Gogo was just telling me about the baby’s mother who passed away and how she is now raising the children again,” Poppy tells me. “Gogo is going to work to get Thulani a birth certificate.”
“Poppy, that was so great. You are really doing great things.”
“It is fun for me.”
“Well, I’m headed this way. My home is just down the way here.”
“Alright, Khethiwe.”
“Ngizobonanini?” (When will I see you next?)
“Next week.”
“Alright. Hamba kahle, Poppy.”
“Uhamba kahle futhi, Khethiwe.” (You go well also, Khethiwe.)
